


In Captivity

by Serindrana



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serindrana/pseuds/Serindrana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin would have killed her. Havelock only spared her to gain her uncle's support. So what do they think Pendleton can do to fix the mess they've made?</p><p>Post-game, LC AU where Corvo dies and the Loyalists prevail. Treavor is sent to retrieve Callista from the pub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Captivity

Treavor worried at the fine sword-shaped stickpin that secured his new, impeccably cleaned cravat. The touch reminded him too quickly, though, that while impeccably clean, the cravat wasn't starched exactly to his liking. His new valet didn't know his preferences yet.

His new valet wasn't Wallace.

He wrinkled his nose. Far below where he stood was what he liked to think of as  _the killing field_ , even if Martin and Havelock would laugh themselves sick if they knew. He could precisely picture where Lydia Brooklaine had bled out, and with less certainty, where Wallace had laid down his life, as brave as ever.

Treavor sighed and shook his head, then lifted his chin.

Things were as they should be. Corvo was dead, Emily had been revealed to Dunwall, Havelock had been installed as Lord Regent, and he- he was  _Prime Minister_. He attempted to delight in the title.

But the door before him mocked him. He had the key to it in his hand, and he began worrying at that, instead. He'd told the others they were better off sending Watchmen or Overseers for this, but Martin had been insistent - a peaceful solution must be tried first.

 _And why don't you go?_  Treavor had asked, sniffing, trying to hide his fear.

 _Because I told her she wasn't fit to be the Empress's teacher - she hates me_.

_And why not Farley?_

_Because he's the man who locked her in there_.

Which had left- him. He tried to think of it as an honor, as something only he could do. He came up empty and shaking.

So- did he knock? Did he simply go in? Was she even alive? How much food had she set aside in there, how much water? It had been days since Havelock had shut her inside. He was going to walk in on a corpse. And what if she'd escaped, or killed herself?

He heard noise beyond the door, and twitched, reflexively.

The noise, he rationalized, could have come from anywhere. The river was swollen beneath him. He rubbed at the key's surface, swallowing and wishing he could reach for his flask.

"Get on with it!" Callista Curnow shouted from the other side of the door. "Whatever it is you're here to do!"

The railcar was still waiting down below, along with Havelock's men-

He swore and slid the key into the lock. He turned it, slowly, then pressed the door open with his shoulder, hand firm on the latch. If he had to, he could pull it shut fast.

At first, Treavor saw nothing. The room was empty. Then strong, thin hands seized on his forearm and he was dragged inside, Callista letting out an inhuman scream of rage. He swore and broke away from her, pinwheeling back. His calf struck the edge of a chair, and he fell.

She darted to the door.

"Don't!" he shouted, then coughed, then added, "Or they'll shoot you!"

Her hand was on the latch, but she froze, chest heaving. Her hair was in disarray, her eyes wild. Slowly, she turned to him. " _Who_  will shoot me?"

"Havelock's men. They're- they're waiting down below, in the pub and around it. If- if you leave without me, they'll shoot."

"Then get up," she snarled, but when she took a step toward him, he could see how her knees trembled.

"That was a savage blow you dealt me," Treavor snipped back, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. No blood came away, of course - he hadn't really been injured, though his ass throbbed - but it felt appropriate. "I'll need a while yet to recover."

She swayed on her feet, then swore and turned. She staggered to her desk.

When she turned back to him, it was with a pistol leveled at his chest.

His mouth went dry.

"I- I don't respond well to threats," he managed.

"Why are they here, Lord Pendleton?" she asked. The barrel wavered in her distress. "Have they come to arrest me? For- for treason?"

"Hardly," he said, holding up his hand entreatingly. "I-  _we_  have an offer for you. Now that everything's settling."

"You left me locked in this tower to  _die_."

"Havelock's idea. Martin wanted to kill you outright," he said, then scooted back across the floor, eyes widening. "He's reevaluated now, of course! But at the time... at the time, we didn't know if you could be-"

 _Trusted_. They hadn't known if she would side with Corvo even in death. Martin had judged the risk too great; she couldn't come with them to Kingsparrow, or be around Emily before her installation in Dunwall Tower. He'd put forth the idea that she might turn on them, if she didn't outright reject them.

And oh, how she'd rejected them! When they'd tried to take Emily, she had screamed and thrown herself at them. It was as if Emily were her own child. Martin would have put a bullet in her head, but Havelock had insisted on mercy.

Later, he'd explained that he'd owed Geoff Curnow a favor - and that they needed his support in the days to come. It had quieted Martin, eventually.

Callista began to pace. Treavor licked his lips as he propped himself up against a bookshelf. "The- the offer," he prompted.

Her thumb brushed the hammer of the gun.

"We would- we would like you to stay by Emily. Not as her tutor, at least not indefinitely, but as- as more of a nursemaid." His voice shook. "She's very scared, Miss Curnow."

"You murdered the only people she felt safe with. Given what happened to her mother, what did you  _expect_  would happen?" Callista snapped, before sinking heavily onto the bed closer to him. She looked as if she had aged several years, and her hair was limp, thin. She was gaunt. Her eyes were faintly unfocused.

He cleared his throat. "We thought we could handle it. And that it was for the best. It  _was_  for the best."

The governess grew very still. A part of Treavor worried that she had simply ceased living, but then she stirred, faintly. She pointed to the floorboards just to the left of him.

"They come up," she said. "There's- whiskey. Get it for me."

"In your state-"

"What do you care about my state? It's drink. I'll share." She fixed a bitter smile on him.

More reassuringly, she set down her pistol.

Treavor watched her a moment longer before running his fingers over the boards. A splinter caught in one, and he winced, but his fingertips soon found the notch that let him lever up the wood. Beneath it was a bottle, half-empty. It was from the pub below, and it wasn't the pub's best, but it wasn't the worst, either. He balanced it on his knee, inspecting it.

Then he set it inside and fished his flask from his breast pocket, and held it out to her.

"We start with the best we have," he said, "and go to the worst."

Callista eyed the flask.

"Here," he said with a quirked brow, and uncapped it, tipping a small amount into his mouth. He swallowed, then extended his arm again. "It's not a trap. Can you imagine if I drugged my own whiskey?"

"You'd forget about it, and be dead within the hour," she conceded, and a faint, tired smile - that wasn't bitter at all - crossed her lips. She took the flask, and swallowed a much larger mouthful than he had.

"It would be a good life," Treavor said, lightly, as she passed the now half-empty flask back to him. "You would live in Dunwall Tower. You might even have a maid of your own."

"But what happens if I refuse?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "They shoot me? Torture me at Coldridge?"

Treavor frowned. "They didn't say," he admitted, taking another sip. He found that he wanted less of the stuff than usual - maybe to save more for the desperate woman across from him. He'd always respected her, if nothing else. She was pleasant and well-comported. And she'd left him a thoughtful note after the deaths of his brothers.

She'd... understood, somehow. She'd known it was both a celebratory and hideous time. She'd mentioned losing others in the past, a brother of her own, but she'd understood far more than Havelock had, who had surely seen more death.

He cleared his throat. "Though," he said, "Havelock and Martin have made it a goal to win the support of your uncle's side of the Watch."

"My uncle," she said, softly, "doesn't know that I'm here."

Treavor shook his head. "No, he must. Havelock mentioned his goodwill when we were talking about- about this. About the offer."

"I don't know much about the conspiracies you three weave," Callista sighed, "but I know enough to suspect that Martin would never trust me not to tell my uncle what really happened."

He blanched. "I... I suppose not." Helpless, he held out the flask.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed it down. Frowning, he lurched forward and snatched it back. " _Savor_  it, or there's hardly any point!"

Callista blinked, rapidly, splashes of whiskey dotting her face. She gasped, then, as the heat of the whiskey built too high in her throat.

"It's from Morley, damn you," Treavor said. "And the blockade's not lifted yet."

The liquid shimmered faintly in the mid-afternoon light that came in through the windows. She wiped at them, her cheeks flushed.

"I'd like to not die," she said as her fingers danced over her skin.

"They did tell me that you wouldn't," he said, "unless you left without me.  _Go in there, and don't come out unless she's agreed or one of you is dead_ , I think is how Havelock said it. I doubt he wagered much on my killing you if it came to blows."

That brought another weak, faint smile to her lips. He felt a surge of pride, and he leaned forward, chest braced on his knees which he'd now drawn up, holding out the flask again.

"Try it," he said, "but a smaller mouthful. Do you have any glasses? Or water?"

"I finished the water this morning," she sighed. "And I've broken all the glasses."

He hummed, thoughtfully, then shrugged. "Just a small mouthful, then. Concentrate on the flavors. The way they lead across your tongue. It's a nice batch."

"I didn't know you cared," she said, taking the flask. Her fingertips, he noted, looked sore and raw. "About the taste, that is. I'm sure the quality is important. Status and all."

"I do care, when I'm sober enough to care," he said, flushing.

He watched as she did as he'd asked, taking a small mouthful and concentrating on it.

"You  _can_  swallow," he said, when she had held it on her tongue for nearly half a minute.

Her throat bobbed and she looked rather relieved.

He took the flask back, and repeated the tasting, letting his head fall back against the shelves behind him.

"And how is life finding the Prime Minister?" she asked.

"It's quite hectic. I presume it will slow down, though. And it is nice to sleep in a proper bed again, away from the stench of the river. The drink is better, too. And the food. Have you had anything to eat?"

"I have a moldering piece of bread left, but I'm not that desperate. Yet."

"My cooks could make you a grand meal. Or Emily's cooks. Havelock's, too. We all have stupendous cooks. I think- I think that would suit you well, eating nicely. Not just moldering bread or tinned hagfish."

He was rambling. Babbling, almost. But the urge to placate Emily was giving way to an urge to help the skeletal, distressed woman across from him. He sipped at his whiskey again.

"I hate you, you know," she said as he passed the flask back to her. "Less than the others, but you're no less wretched."

He frowned.

"Though I guess you're only their wallet," she mused, leaning back on the bed. She drank, he thought, idly, like an officer of the lower watch. He'd never seen her drink in the days of the conspiracy, and he'd at some point assumed she didn't indulge (unlike Brooklaine, or the other one).

His frown deepened.

Nobody had put a bullet in the other one.

 _Shit_. It had been days, and she was likely untraceable now. She'd certainly seen and heard enough. If that other one ever came forward-

Callista dropped the flask onto the floorboards, and it made a hollow clanging noise. Luckily, it wasn't his fine new flask, but the one he'd used at the pub. He stared at it.

"You'd really have your cooks make dinner for me?"

"And breakfast, if you needed it," he said, distractedly. He reached out for the flask. He needed to tell Martin about- about whatever her name was. He vaguely remembered orange hair, a soft cap.  _Damn_ , what had her name been?

"I want to leave this room," Callista said, her voice unbearably sad, and he looked up at her, startled. "I don't know if I want to see Emily again, though."

"She misses you," he said, swallowing. "Very much. She cries your name."

"I failed her."

He watched as she flopped over onto her side, resting her cheek against the pillow. For the first time, he realized her jacket was undone, her white undershirt showing.

Below it, she didn't wear any corset.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair. There was too much to keep in order; Callista's wellbeing, Emily's needs and the necessities of the conspiracy, the girl with the ginger hair who'd gotten away, the whiskey meeting up with the lunch he'd had at wine and fuzzing up all the rest.

Callista's unbound waist, soft but too narrow.

The few droplets of whiskey still on her skin.

He groaned and made himself stand. His ass gave a loud protest, and he staggered over to the window, looking out.

"You know," Callista murmured, her voice thick with drink and exhaustion, "I always thought you were pathetic. Drunk, powerless, out of touch. Martin and Havelock impressed me, then frightened me, but all along, all I felt for you was pity."

"Thank you," he muttered, squinting down at where he could faintly see Havelock and Martin waiting by the railcar.

"And now the tables are turned," she said, laughing weakly.

He looked at her, sprawled out on the narrow bed.

"I don't pity you," he said, voice softening. "And you're hardly pathetic. You're just- we've been very cruel to you. I can make it better."

"Would you?" she asked, canting her head.

He wanted very much to kiss her, he realized.

And wouldn't that make it better? He'd give her some comfort, and then he could take her home to Pendleton Hall. She'd make a wretched mistress, he supposed, but he could certainly give her safety and a soft bed, and a connection to  _him_  might save her from Martin's dangerous paranoia. His cooks would make breakfast for her in the morning.

He imagined her cleaned up, sitting in the intimate room he preferred to take his morning meals in, and before he could think better of it, he stooped down and kissed her.

She was pliant, well-soused, and he sank down, propping one knee onto the mattress.

And then the muzzle of her gun pressed into his ribs, and he stopped breathing, waiting only for the click of the hammer.

"Get me out of here," she whispered against his mouth, "and then we'll see what happens next."


End file.
